Before the oarsmen of Odysseusstrained their arms against the wine dark sea,I see strange forms, as if in prophesy,of that old god whose name is Proteus.He was the herdsman tending to the seasand had the gift of reading omens too,but he preferred to hide most things he knewand wove odd scraps into his auguries.When urged by people he would take uponhimself a lion’s shape, be a huge blaze,grow treelike by the river, giving shade,and then like water in a wave be gone.Don’t shrink from Proteus the Egyptian,you, who are one, and yet are many men.

Sonnet 195translation by Tony Barnstone

Relentlessly, my face and hair grow oldbut still I need the hook and lure so sweet and still can’t let go of the evergreen,the Laurel tree that scorns both sun and cold.

The sea will drain of water and the skyof stars when I no longer dread and needher gorgeous shadow; only then I’ll ceaseto hate and love love’s wound I cannot hide.

Though everything impossible occur,still none but she or death can heal the woundmade in my heart with her amazing eyes.

She Was Cruel, but in Retrospect PerhapsShe Needed to Be to Make Him Understandtransformation by Tony Barnstone

Look at how his face grows fat, and look,his hair grows only like a sea aroundan island of bald rock, and yet he’s foundhe still can’t squirm off of this hidden hook.A subtle needle threads its way through him, and stitches everything he does with pain.Each time she says “We need to talk” to him,he sees the sun go dead, the oceans drain,the termite-ridden planet rotting through.He gnaws upon each little thing she saysand feel his bones extracted from the flesh.When she says “I’d feel better without you,”he feels his skin pulled off, his muscles flayed.He needs her more the more she needs him less.

The tranquil aura winding through green leavescomes murmuring then slaps me in the faceand makes me think of how it was that dayLove first inflicted wounds, so sweet and deep,

and makes me see the lovely face she holdsaloof, that jealousy or anger veilsfrom me, and her gold hair entwined with pearlsand gems, or blonde as newly polished gold

when with a toss she’d let her hair unwindand then so charmingly restrain her locksthat thinking back on it still shakes my mind.

Then time entangled me inside those knotsand tied my heart up with a sturdy twinethat only Death will know the method to unknot.

A Sonnet Using the Iris in the Mirrorto Reflect on the Day He Met Hertransformation by Tony Barnstone

The vase of purple iris in the mirroris cutting at the air like crisscrossed bladesand makes him think of how it was that dayhe first was wounded by the sight of hernipples in outline through her purple blouse.He swears they stabbed right through his eyes and throughhis body. Purple in the glass. He knewthat they’d make love before he asked her out, but didn’t know she’d move inside his mind.And so she fell into the mirror, whereshe wounds him still and watches time unwindand wind her name in silver through his hair.Reflecting on it shakes his brain. No timehas passed inside the glass. He sees her there.